


Primogenitus

by WillowMorrighan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7349605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowMorrighan/pseuds/WillowMorrighan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts with a murder in a locked house in Baltimore. A strange burn mark is on the man's wrist, in the shape of a Celtic knot.  Sam and Dean hear about the case and head to Maryland, just days before St. Patrick's day.  With the help of Castiel, will the brothers solve the multiple murders in time, or will the monster of the week prove to be the Winchesters' match?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primogenitus

PRIMOGENITUS

 

Cast of Characters:

Dean Winchester: A canon character. Dean Winchester is a Hunter, along with his younger brother, Sam Winchester. 

Sam Winchester: A canon character. Sam Winchester is a Hunter, along with his older brother, Dean Winchester.

Castiel: A canon character. Castiel is an Angel of the Lord, the one who raised Dean Winchester from Hell. He joined the Winchester brothers in the fight against the Apocalypse. 

Bobby Singer: A canon character. Bobby is a family friend of the Winchesters. They consider him an Uncle. Bobby is a Hunter who fought against the Apocalypse.

Dr. Annie Swift: A medical examiner in Baltimore.

Fai Thanatos: The father of Maria and Eleanor. Fai is the husband of Deirdre. 

Deirdre Thanatos: The mother of Maria and Eleanor. Deirdre is the wife of Fai. She is the sister to Maureen.

Maria and Eleanor Thanatos: The daughters of Fai and Deirdre Thanatos.

Maureen: The sister to Deirdre Thanatos.

Kieran Anthony: The ex-husband of Rosalind Jones. 

Rosalind Jones: The ex-wife of Kieran Anthony. Her current husband is Mac Jones.

Mac Jones: The current husband of Rosalind Jones.

Alexandra O’Brian: A regular at Darcy’s Pub.

Camlin Roark: A suspect.

Thomas Taggart: Brother to Amanda Taggart

Amanda Taggart: Sister to Thomas Taggart

 

PRIMOGENITUS

 

It was a quiet evening in Charles Village Baltimore, Maryland. It was calm, undisturbed. That is, it was quiet until the man who resided in 2737 Maryland Ave screamed  
in sheer terror. 

Fai Thanatos, husband and father of two, was found the next morning, dead, when his wife, Deirdre, returned from staying at a relative’s house, her children, Eleanor and Maria, chattering happily behind her as she entered her home. 

“Fai? We’re home! Come say hi to the kids!” When she got no reply, she sighed in prepared exasperation, having not expected him to answer. 

 

“That father of yours,” she muttered to the girls. She laid her keys on a nearby table and dropped the overnight bags in the middle of the narrow hallway. She wandered through the house occasionally calling his name, absentmindedly cleaning as she went through and condensing the mess which seemed to have gotten much more chaotic in the day she had been gone.

She could hear the girls giggling and loudly whispering in the next room. They always had something silly they were discussing. She hoped they would gain some sense in their late teens. While she was glad her daughters were very nearly always happy, they seemed to have little to nothing in their heads, except nonsense. Just like their father. 

“Fai! You can get back to whatever you’re working on in a minute! Come say hi to your daughters!” she exclaimed, starting to get irritated. He still did not respond to her. 

“FAI!” She was feeling very impatient and Eleanor and Maria had gone quiet in the other room when they heard her shouting for their father. She went by the kitchen when she smelt a metallic smell, coppery almost. She entered the kitchen out of curiosity, following the smell. Her eyes fell upon Fai, lying on the floor, and a bloody kitchen knife next to him. She gasped loudly and put her hands over her mouth to muffle her screams from her daughters. She turned away from the sight of her dead husband and saw Eleanor and Maria standing behind her staring at their father’s body in shock and horror. She rushed forward and ushered them out of the room as hurriedly as possible. She made them sit on a sofa in one of the rooms farther away from the kitchen and grabbed the phone. 

The police and ambulance had come and gone, and the sun too had left, and she’d calmed down her daughters and herself as much as could be expected. It was only after all of that that Deirdre Thanatos recalled the odd mark on Fai’s wrist, seemingly a burn mark. It was in the shape of a Celtic knot.  
****************************************************************************** 

“…and I’m telling you, once and for all, Sammy, that cake is not pie!”

Sam Winchester groaned and tried hard not to listen to his older brother’s ranting, but some of it got through anyway.

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, “listen, I really think that you should hear about this…”

“…I know they’re both desserts, but c’mon man, for the last time, will you stop picking up cake at the store? It is just not…”

“Dean!” the younger Winchester barked, “just listen up, okay?” He ignored Dean’s grumbling. “I read about a case we might have. Here,” and so saying, he shoved the laptop towards his brother.

They were sitting in a diner in Kentucky eating their breakfast before hitting the road. Sam was looking up prospective cases on his laptop while Dean was doing everything in his power to be annoying.

 

“Sam, I don’t know about this one,” Dean said, gulping down the last of his coffee. “This looks like a bunch of kiddie pranks. Look, in the picture you can even see the bed-sheet on the ghost. Scary,” he commented. 

Sam spun around the laptop in confusion. “No, not the stupid ghost case! Look at the one in Baltimore.”

There was silence for a moment as Dean scrolled down the page. “I don’t know,” Dean complained. “Sounds to me like it’s just humans again.”

Sam shook his head. “No, all the doors were locked from the inside. Besides, the burn on his wrist? Sounds like our kind of thing.”

Dean wiped his mouth and threw down the napkin on the table. “Well, if we’re going to head to Baltimore, we better get on the road.” He threw down some bills on the table  
and stood. “C’mon, Sammy.” He grinned. “Let’s go hunting.”  
****************************************************************************  
Dean and Sam Winchester were Hunters.

Not hunters with a lowercase ‘h’ but a full on capital Hunters. They didn’t hunt cute fuzzy little animals. No, Sam and Dean hunted Other Things.  
Ghosts, Werewolves, Vampires, Wendigos, Demons, Angels, and most recently the Devil himself; they hunted the bad guys so other people didn’t have to.  
Their father, John Winchester, had started them in the family business by the time Dean was four years old. That’s because Mary, their mother, had been killed by a demon, sending John into a spiral of depression and revenge. The revenge business had become their lifestyle, and for more than twenty years the boys had been hunting things bigger and more dangerous than most people even imagined existed. 

And worst of all, they did it without even being paid.  
*****************************************************************************  
“Dean! Man, you just missed the turn!” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“What!? Where was it?” Dean asked, like it was outrageous the turn should be missed by him. 

“It was back there on the left!” Sam replied, turning in his seat and pointing behind them. 

Dean suddenly turned the car around sharply, resulting in Sam yelling at him and a lot of car horns blaring in their direction. 

“Dude! What the hell!? You could have gotten us killed!” 

Dean chuckled and Sam looked at him incredulously. 

“That would be the joke of the century wouldn’t it, man? ‘Hey, you know the Winchesters; they go after the scariest and most dangerous supernatural things? Yeah, they got killed in a car crash ‘cause of a missed turn’.” 

Sam split a grin quickly, but then glared at Dean. “You said you knew where you were going.”

 

Dean gave him a venomous look. “I do! I have the map right… here…” He flipped it right side up and laughed embarrassedly. “Oops.”  
Sam sighed. 

“So… wanna stop and get something to eat? Might be awhile before we get to Baltimore now,” Dean asked with a flippantly apologetic grin. 

“Sure. Why not? You get cranky when you’ve been in the car for too long without anything to eat,” Sam said, grinning mischievously. He got a smack to the head for that. “Dude!” he complained, rubbing his head.  
***************************************************************************** 

After the car ride was over, and they arrived in Baltimore, they set about searching for a motel to stay in for the night. The Lucky Duck motel was not the homiest looking place in the world, but it was cheap for a couple of guys who lived off of credit card scams and hustling pool. 

“So to recap,” Dean said, putting on his tie, “We’re gonna pretend to be a couple of cops looking into the death of Fai Thanatos; we pull a fast one on his grieving widow to look for clues, and then we snoop around at the mortuary to figure out what nailed this guy?

Sam frowned. “You don’t need to make it sound so skeevy,”

“No, no. Sounds great. I was just making sure we both knew the plan.”

An hour later saw them in Charles Village, Baltimore knocking at the door of the Widow Thanatos. Deirdre was a beautiful woman, with flowing red hair and bright green eyes. She was, however, weeping. Dean grimaced, and shook his head at Sam. Sam grunted, and nodded back towards Deirdre. Dean groaned in disappointment while Sam went off to talk to the daughters.

“Here,” Dean said, dismayed as he handed the widow a Kleenex. She sobbed, then blew her nose.  
******************************************************************************  
“So you saw nothing unusual? No, um, cold drafts or rattling windowpanes?”

“Nothing at all,” Deirdre sniffed. “There was just so much blood…”

“Hmm,” Dean coughed. He glanced over at the living room, where Sam was sitting with the two girls, talking to them about whatever took their fancy. They were about to  
wrap things up with neither of them any wiser on what had happened that night.

Somewhere around the corner a door slammed open. “Hello dearie, I’m here!” a chirpy voice called out.

Maria and Eleanor both stood up and ran to the new woman who had entered the room. “Who’s that?” Dean asked, jerking his chin in the newcomer’s direction.

“Oh, that’s my sister, Maureen,” Deirdre said of the perky blonde woman who had just walked into the house. “She’s been stopping by a lot since…” she broke off, tears welling. 

“Ah, that’s great,” Dean interrupted hastily. “So then you’re close to your sister?

“Very,” Deirdre said, dabbling at her eyes. “She’s so good with the girls and she helped me out with Fai this last year….” She trailed off.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. Unfortunately at the time, Sam walked up and slapped him on the shoulder. “I think we have everything we need Mrs. Thanatos. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

“Just great Sammy,” Dean complained when they were outside, walking towards the Impala. “I was this close,” he said gesturing in Sam’s face, “to hearing more about Thanatos from his wife. There was something bad going on between them.”

“You think we’ve actually got a case?”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to look around a little more,” Dean admitted begrudgingly. Sam just smirked knowingly.  
***************************************************************************** 

“I’m on the…Highway…to Hell!” 

 

Sam groaned, waking up as the music suddenly blared through the radio in their motel room. 

“Dean! Shut UP!” He yelled over the radio and his brother singing, throwing one pillow at Dean and putting the other over his ears.

“C’mon Sammy! Time to wake up! Can’t be sleeping all day, murders to solve, things to kill!” Sam groaned again, muttering rude words at Dean into his pillow. 

Next thing he knew there was ice cold water pouring onto his feet that weren’t covered by the blanket. Sam yelped and leapt out of bed. He glared at Dean and wondered why the water was so cold. It must have been that Maryland water was just colder ‘cause the climate was colder. He was used to being in warmer states. 

“I think I hate you. And Baltimore,” he said under his breath, walking into the bathroom. 

Dean snorted; he loved Baltimore.

He had just been to some convenience store and discovered the best thing ever, exclusive to Baltimore. Berger Cookies. Ooh yeah. He grabbed another and bit into it, deciding he needed to buy enough to last him a year, making sure to come back next year of course. 

“Rise and shine,” Sammy!” he chuckled. “We’re going to the mortuary today.”

“Please, no more bodily fluids,” Sam said, grimacing, memories of spleen juice to the face still ripe in his mind. Shuddering, he made his way to the shower.  
*****************************************************************************  
“Agents Jackson, and – Perry?” the woman in the morgue asked skeptically.

Sam laughed nervously. “What can we say? We’re rock-stars.”

 

The pretty woman turned around and Sam gave Dean a private kick to the shin. 

“So,” said Dr. Annie Swift, turning back around. “You’re cops?” 

“Yep, officers of the law,” Dean said cheekily, holding up his (fake) badge.

The woman hummed and turned back to her desk. “Here’s the file on Fai Thanatos. I assume you’ve already read it.”

“Yes, we have.”

“Good, then if you’ll just follow me.” She click-clacked down the hallway to the freezer section of the mortuary.

“No bodily fluids man,” Sam muttered to Dean nervously. Dean just clicked his tongue at his brother and grinned.

“I’m assuming this is just a cursory check-up?” Dr. Swift said tartly, her hand on the freezer door.

Dean smiled at her, sickly sweet. “You got it,” he assured her. The doctor just frowned, ignored his flirting and pulled the door open.

 

“Fai Thanatos, Asian male, aged 44.” She pulled the cover down from his face. “Found dead Thursday night at 10:37 pm. Suffered from a knife wound to the heart. Conclusion, victim bled to death at approximately 7 pm.”

Dean and Sam looked down at Fai Thanatos. He was, as the doctor had pointed out, a middle aged Chinese man. He had a deep knife wound in his heart, and a bloated belly.

“What about this?” Dean asked, picking up Fai’s wrist. 

Dr. Swift frowned again. “That wasn’t a cause of death,” she said of the strange burn mark on Fai’s wrist, “but it was made recently. The marks suggest it’s some kind of brand, placed there within the last few hours before his death. Also, here,” she said, pointing with a gloved finger towards his neck, “there’s a hypodermic mark. Presumably the victim was tranquilized before being stabbed, suggesting that his death was a revenge killing.”

Dean and Sam looked at one another without speaking. “Is that all?” Sam asked, clearly uncomfortable.

“Almost,” she said. Dr. Swift drew the cloth further down Fai’s body. “Mr. Thanatos had the beginning stages of cirrhosis of the liver.”

Sam looked up at her. “Alcoholism?”

“Yep. What I gather from the victim’s wife he went out drinking three to four times a week. Which you would know, Agent Jackson, Agent Perry,” Dr. Annie Swift said viciously, “if you had read the victim’s file.”

Sam and Dean shuffled uncomfortably. “There’s -uh- a lot of red tape at the office?” Dean offered, scratching the back of his head.

She just stared back at them, unimpressed.  
**************************************************************************** 

Sam sat at a table staring at Dean; Dean sat at a table staring at pie; the pie sat in the display case staring at nothing. It was a pie after all.

“Dean…” Sam said, staring at his brother unwaveringly. 

“Shhhh…. I’m imagining eating that pie.” Dean said, in a sort of whisper.

Sam gave him a confused look. “Why don’t you just eat the pie instead of imagining eating it?”

Dean laughed, patting his younger brother on the back condescendingly. 

“Oh…. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy… dude! Because… I’m stuffed….”

Sam huffed in amusement. 

“So why are you imagining eating it then?” 

Dean looked over at him in disbelief. “It’s pie!” 

“Pshh. Whatever. We gotta talk about this case.” Sam smacked his hand down on the table, and Dean turned back towards him. “So,” Sam grunted. “Do we have a case, or not?”

“I don’t know,” Dean sighed. He looked at the file set before him. Dr. Swift’s snide comments had finally made the two of them read through it. “On one hand, there’s the tranq marks on the guy’s neck. That’s classic human interference. But then there’s that burn….”

“Right, the burn mark.” Sam turned the laptop around. “I found something similar here. Take a look.” Dean huddled closer to peer over his little brother’s giant shoulders. 

There on the screen of a homemade website was the same mark that had been found on the wrist of Fai Thanatos. Dean quickly checked the snapshot that had been placed in the file to be sure. They were identical. 

“‘This piece of Celtic knot work is a design that was found scratched into the tomb of an unknown monarch from about 1000 B.C.’” Dean read off of the site. “It supposedly represents the darkness of the moon and the winter solstice… Celtic zodiac sign, yada yada, pagan worship and so forth.” 

Sam frowned, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards. “That’s all Irish lore?” 

“Yeah. But this website’s really hipster-new age; don’t you check your facts?”

Sam snatched up his beloved laptop with a scowl. “It’s not like there’s an official Hunting website, Dean!” he snapped.

Dean held up his hands with a look of righteous indignation. “Alright, okay, chill out Samantha! Geez….”

Sam grumpily returned the computer to its former spot. “So what do you think it is? Are we spending any more time on this case or getting the hell out of Dodge?”

Dean looked outside. It was mid-March, and it had snowed yesterday. The streets of Baltimore were lined with the soft powder, no more than an inch deep. Despite the loud noises of cars jamming their way through the narrow city streets everything seemed quiet and peaceful. It seemed impossible something as awful as murder could ever occur here.

But Dean had learned long ago never to trust by appearances. If he did, he probably would have had his head bitten off by a vampire a long time ago.

“Nah,” he said finally. “Let’s stick around and search for some more clues. What do we do next?”

Sam drummed his fingers on the computer’s keypad. “Man, I don’t know. More research tonight, I guess.”

Dean made ‘blech’ sound. “C’mon, let’s go back to the motel. We’ll figure the rest out in the morning.”  
**************************************************************************** 

However, for one Baltimorean, the next morning would never come.

Kieran Anthony of Fells Point, Maryland was stumbling home to his $600,000 dollar row home after a night out drinking. He wiped at his mouth with a scowl, and crossed Lancaster Street on a red light. The driver of a black SUV swerved and narrowly avoided hitting him. Kieran swore vehemently and cursed at the driver until he was safely across the road. Luckily, his townhouse was directly across the street from a tidy row of shops and bars. He fumbled putting the key into the lock, opened the door, and slipped inside. 

Inside the house it was chilly, dark, and lonesome. Kieran blinked in the low light, and a wave of bad memories from the last year swept over him as he took in the fine furnishings of his home. Gloomily he slouched off into the kitchen in search of another drink.

Kieran was bent over the fridge in his tiny galley kitchen when he heard a rustling sound behind him. He paused, and jerked his head up to look behind him.

“Hello?” he slurred.

Silence reigned throughout the house. Kieran sniffed and turned his back.

A heartbeat, then out of nowhere, the creaking of a rope broke the silence as a taut noose slid around Kieran Anthony’s neck.  
*****************************************************************************  
“See, I told you if we just stuck around till the morning,” Dean said smugly as they pulled up to number 1590 Lancaster Street. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re an absolute genius. Come on.” Tugging at the sleeves of his suit, he exited the Impala. Rapping smartly on the glossy wooden door, Sam waited impatiently on the front step, Dean by his side. There was a pause, then the door flew open.

“Why am I not surprised?” Dr. Swift said dryly.

Dean gave her his most charming grin. “Well, well, we meet again,” he said, leaning on the half open door.

“Please, does that work on anyone?” Annie Swift snorted, and she kicked the door open. Dean went flying headfirst and would have face-planted the floor had Sam not  
caught him by the collar. 

 

“Yeah, well, you’ll see,” Dean hollered after her retreating form. “She’ll see,” he told Sam confidently.

“Dean.”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam commented idly, and pushed past him into the house.

They walked into the townhome. It opened up into a large foyer which led into an elegantly furnished dining room and living room. They followed Dr. Swift all the way into the narrow kitchen where the body of the recently deceased Kieran Anthony was lying.

Sam and Dean eyed the body carefully, while Dr. Swift bent down next to it. 

“Cause of death, asphyxiation by strangulation,” she said, standing. “Victim’s name is Kieran Anthony. Caucasian male, age thirty-two. Anthony was killed between 2 and 3 a.m. this morning. He was found at 9:35 by his ex-wife, Rosalind Jones and her husband Mac Jones. Apparently, Rosalind got a drunken voicemail from the victim and came over to check on him.”

“I don’t see any signs of a struggle,” Dean noted. “Somebody he knew?”

“Or the killer was already inside when Anthony arrived home,” Dr. Swift said. “The door was locked when Mr. and Mrs. Jones arrived.”

“The victim’s ex-wife still has keys to the place?” Sam asked incredulously. 

“You can ask her all about it,” Swift said. “She’s sitting in the study.”

The brothers marched into the little library. There was a woman there and a man; presumably Mr. and Mrs. Mac Jones. The brothers instantly knew that no love had been lost Kieran Anthony and the Joneses. Rosalind Jones looked profoundly bored, and her new husband, who was standing by the door, had folded his meaty arms and was glancing at his watch from time to time. 

“Jeez, who hit the off switch on their emotions?” Dean muttered as they set eyes on the couple.

“I’m Agent Jackson, this is Agent Perry,” Dean said officially. He held out his hand to Mac Jones, and his wrist was immediately crushed by the man’s enormous paws. Dean  
winced. That guy was strong!

Dr. Swift’s heels clacked from behind them. “I thought he was Agent Jackson,” she said, pointing to Sam wryly. 

Sam chuckled nervously. “No, I am definitely Agent Perry. I would know.”

Dr. Swift hummed.

“Idiot!” Sam hissed in a whisper to his brother.

“Not my fault that the chick memorized my name… she likes me. Hard not to…who doesn’t?” Dean whispered back, grinning at his brother, who was rolling his eyes.

“I thought the police had already come through,” Rosalind Jones interrupted them impatiently. An unpleasant woman, Rosalind was as rude as she was pretentious.

“Well, we’re just here to check up on them,” Dean smiled thinly. “You could say we’re the…experts.”

Rosalind and Mac Jones looked thoroughly unimpressed. 

“So, Mrs. Jones, you’re the one who found Mr. Anthony?” Sam interrupted.

“Yes, at 9:35 this morning,” she said automatically. 

Dean squinted at her. “That’s pretty exact. Tell me, did you see anything strange when you got here?”

She scoffed. “You mean besides my ex’s dead body?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, yeah.”

“No, nothing is out of the ordinary.”

“Mrs. Jones,” Sam cleared his throat, “is it true that you have a set of keys to this house?”

“Yes,” she said. “I lived here with Kieran before the divorce. Then when I met Mac I never bothered giving the keys back.”

“Were you on good terms with your husband?”

She frowned. “No. My ex-husband was trying to win me back. But that was never going to happen.”

“Why not?” Dean asked bluntly. 

Rosalind’s kohl-lined eyes crinkled. “He was slavishly addicted to work, women, and drink. Any of those reasons good enough for you?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe it’s grounds for a divorce. But an ex-wife being driven to distraction by her cheating, drinking, work-obsessed husband? Now there’s a motive for murder.”

Sounds of outrage exploded out of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Mac took a threatening step towards Dean. Dean was not a short man, but Mac towered over him. “What exactly are you implying?” he growled.

“He’s not implying anything,” Sam said immediately.

“That’s not what it sounds like to me,” Mac said furiously.

“Tell me, where were you at two o’clock this morning?” Dean interjected, ignoring him completely. Mac Jones looked enraged. 

“Why the hell should I tell you?” he blustered. 

“Because we’re with the law,” Sam said, holding up his badge. “And if that doesn’t convince you, then maybe this will,” he said, patting the solid bulge of his gun from beneath his suit jacket.

Mac Jones’ eyes bulged and his face turned beetroot red. “You-!” 

Dean patted his own gun happily. 

Mac deflated. “I was at home. In bed,” he added.

Sam turned to Rosalind. “Can you confirm that?” 

For a moment, just a moment, Rosalind hesitated. Then she said quietly, “Yes. He was home.” 

It wasn’t much of a pause, but it was there. Sam and Dean caught it and glanced sideways at each other. “Thank you for your time,” Sam said quickly. “We’ll be in touch,” he added.

They made their escape to the street, and stopped just outside of the door. “Holy crap,” Sam panted, “Jones’s wife thinks he did it!”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sounding discouraged. “I don’t know, Sammy, maybe we’re wrong about this case. I mean, it seemed like a coincidence, two locked door cases in the same week, but this one seems pretty open and shut.”

Just then the door to 1590 Lancaster Street burst open. Dr. Swift emerged, running at break-neck speed, but then when she saw the brothers standing on the street, she walked towards them self-consciously. “Ahem.”

“Hey,” Dean greeted. “What’s up?” 

“I’m glad you’re both still here,” she proclaimed. “I forgot to give this to you. Here,” and she shoved a manila folder at Sam.

Startled, he opened it. On the first page he opened, there in a black and white Polaroid, was the same Celtic knot that had been on Fai Thanatos.

Sam closed the folder and gave her a look of disbelief. “Whoa, wait a second. Where did this come from?” He pointed at the picture.

“It’s on Kieran Anthony’s neck,” she said breathlessly. “I just found it. It was underneath the rope, and it’s so small, I nearly missed it.”

“Wait,” Dean said, “so then these two cases are definitely connected?”

“It appears so,” Dr. Swift said. “Agents Jackson and Perry, it seems like we have a serial killer on our hands.”

Dean hummed the Jaws theme under his breath. 

Sam and Dr. Swift looked at each other for a moment before slowly turning their heads to look at Dean.

“Did you just- ?” Dr. Swift started, looking slightly amused.

“No!” Dean interrupted, sounding like a whiny child.

“Right,” Sam looked embarrassed. “We’re leaving now.” Dean was still staring at Dr. Swift. Sam dragged him by the lapels of his jacket. “Right… now!”  
****************************************************************************  
“Hi, Mrs. Thanatos? This is Agent Jackson. My partner and I came over the other day, investigating your husband’s murder. Yeah, that’s us. Hey, we need to know the name of the bar your husband used to go to. For the investigation.” Dean tipped the receiver away from his chin and mouthed some quick words at Sam, who grabbed at napkin and began to scribble. “Darcy’s Pub, number 1530. Gotcha. Thanks, Deirdre.” Dean hung up the phone.

“You got it?” Sam asked his brother.

“Oh I got it,” Dean announced. He picked up his phone, and began to fiddle with it. Soon, and map of Baltimore appeared before his tired eyes and he enlarged the screen and sat it on the table. “She said her husband went to Darcy’s every day after work. And guess where it is?” He jabbed the phone with his index finger. “Lancaster Street.”

“You mean the same street where Kieran Anthony lived?” 

“You got it. Deirdre said Fai’s job was two blocks down from the place. Put two work- obsessed alcoholics on the same street, shake well, and what have we got?”

“They would’ve hit the same bar at some point,” Sam concluded.

“Exactly. There’s a chance our two vics knew one another, or at least recognized each other by sight. And Darcy’s Pub is where they would have met.”

“We’ve got our connection.” Sam sat back, pleased.

“You bet your ass we do. Now we just need to get down there and check the place out. Somebody or something is killing off these guys, and that bar is the best clue we’ve got.” Dean grabbed his green army jacket, and Sam put on his brown coat and followed his brother out the door.

They left the Lucky Duck Motel and trudged out in the chill air to the Impala. The temperature had dropped again and flurries were falling from the sky, so that the snow crunched underneath their shoes. The Impala had a light dusting covering her hood and windshield, which Dean lovingly brushed off. They slid inside the car, freezing on the leather interior, and then they were off down the lamp-lit streets of Baltimore.

Darcy’s Pub in Fells Point Maryland was nothing to look at from the outside. It stood out from the fine apartments on the opposite side of the road. The pub was backed to the Baltimore Harbor; the brothers could see light reflecting off of the waves lapping at the docks behind the building. The outside of Darcy’s was dilapidated, covered in peeling brown paint. A red neon ‘Bar’ sign hung above a plain black door. Dean parked the Impala across the street, and the brothers went inside.

Darcy’s smelled like mildew, and from the look of the place, that probably wasn’t a bad guess. There was a wooden bar set on one half of the room, surrounded by about a dozen barstools. The other side of the building had an odd assortment of wobbly tables and cushioned seats with the padding poking out of them. There was a large ‘No Smoking’ poster on the wall, but the faintest musk of smoke still hung in the air.

There were about a dozen patrons in the bar, mostly men, but two or three women were mixed in the crowd. The bartender herself was a woman, with a steely look in her eyes that reminded Dean uncannily of Ellen. 

 

The brothers walked up to the bar and took a couple of seats. “Two Addams, please,” Dean ordered and gave the bartender a ten. She nodded perfunctorily and walked off to get their drinks. 

“This place looks like the town watering hole,” Sam remarked. 

He was right. The pub had just the right low-key atmosphere that would collect alcoholics like flies to a spider web. It was the kind of place where everyone minded their own business, and on any other occasion, Sam and Dean would have fit right in. 

They scoped out the other folks in the bar carefully. There were two couples in the bar; one at a booth, the other sitting down the other end of the line of barstools. There was a group of men, who looked like they had just left the office from the sight of their outfits. They were munching on peanuts and watching the local football game on a wall-mounted television. Then there were the barflies. Interspersed at tables throughout the pub were lonely men who sat by themselves nursing their beverages. These were the people on which Sam and Dean focused their attentions. 

“Two Addams,” the barkeep muttered, sliding their beers down the counter.

“Thanks,” Sam said. “Excuse me,” he added hastily when he saw that she was about to walk away. She turned back to him with a blank stare. “Do you recognize this man?” He pulled the photograph of Fai Thanatos out of his wallet.

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, that’s Fai. He comes here. Why?”

Sam slid another picture across the counter to her. “How about him?”

She barely glanced at the picture. “I don’t know him by name. He kind of looks familiar. Why d’you ask?”

“Both of these men were killed in the last four days. We have a reason to believe that they were both regulars in this bar. We were hoping you could tell us what you know.”

“Fai’s dead?” a voice asked. It was the young blonde woman from the couple sitting on the barstools. Sam and Dean turned to look at her. The barkeep, glad to have found an out, slunk away. “Sorry for listening in. But is he really dead?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “Was he a friend of yours?”

“Oh no,” the young blonde said. She turned to her husband and shook him. “Honey, sweetie? Fai’s dead.” Her husband unglued his eyes from the T.V. screen and made a vague sounding grunt before he turned back to the television.

The woman ignored him and held out her hand. “Alexandra O’Brian.”

“Dean Jackson.” They shook on it. 

“Who else died?” she asked and took a look at the photo. “Oh my, that’s Kieran Anthony!”

“Another friend of yours?” 

Alexandra laughed. “No, but he was a regular here. I just know them all.”

“Ah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Mrs. O’Brian, do you know anyone who might have been connected to Mr. Anthony or Mr. Thanatos?”

“I don’t know…” she sipped at her Guinness thoughtfully. “They usually both came here alone. But sometimes they would sit up here at the counter and chat with me. They were such nice men.”

“Would they ever talk to one another?” Sam asked.

“Sometimes.”

“What about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sports. Wall-Street. They weren’t great friends if that’s what you’re asking.” Alexandra eyed Sam and Dean. “You’re brothers, aren’t you,” she said speculatively.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “How’d you figure that out?” 

She smiled. “Call it a mother’s instinct. Who’s older?”

Dean gave her a half-hearted salute. 

“It must be nice working together,” Alexandra said mildly. “Either that or infuriating.”

“It has its moments,” Sam replied. Dean elbowed him.

Alexandra was looking around the room with her lips pursed. “Let’s see, there’s Nathan, he comes here a lot, but he usually drinks alone. Then there the Clancy brothers - they make a lot of noise, but they’re usually harmless. Then there’s Camlin Roark ….” Alexandra breezily gestured to a darkened booth in the corner of the room. Sam and Dean both turned to look.

A man with a broad black hat sat at the table; a glass of whiskey in front of him, and a lit pipe pressed to his mouth. He didn’t seem to care about the ‘no smoking’ rule very  
much. He was so hunched over, his back curved like a great ‘C,’ so that the brothers couldn’t see his face.

“That’s him,” Alexandra said in a hush. “He’s a lone wolf for the most part. Except sometimes it seems that he gets lonely and he seeks people out. I saw him the other day, talking to Fai. And then, also with Kieran….”

Dean turned to Sam. “I’m thinking we oughta check out this guy.” 

Sam nodded briefly. “Hey, can I get your number?”

Alexandra flashed them a smile. “Nice try, but I’m already married. Right, hon?” Playfully she nudged her husband, who was still watching basketball.

Sam smiled uncertainly. “Uh, right. But seriously, ma’am, we need your number for the case file.”

“Alright, spoilsport!” Alexandra grabbed a ‘Darcy’s Pub’ napkin and taking a pen from her purse, wrote down her number. 

“Thanks.” Sam tucked it away into his jacket. “C’mon Dean. Let’s go.” They got off their barstools and turned around. And then they stopped dead.

Somehow, in the moments previously, they had lost their only suspect. The booth where Camlin Roark had been sitting was completely empty and there was no sign of him anywhere.

“Oh sh--,” Dean grabbed Sam’s sleeve. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know!” They practically ran to the front door, and burst out onto chilly Lancaster Street. “There!” They saw the back of a man walking away, his knee length jacket flapping in the wind. 

The Winchesters chased Camlin Roark down the street. The man wasn’t running, but somehow he managed to stay ahead of them on the slippery road. “Hey!” Dean barked, trying to get the guy’s attention, but he didn’t even turn his head; he just kept on walking calmly and evenly down the street.

The brothers had almost caught up to him when suddenly Roark turned down a narrow alleyway. Seconds later, the brothers reached the turn and threw themselves after him.

But the alleyway was empty. It was a narrow passage of stone and brick, quiet save the creaking of clothes hanging on lines. There were no doorways into which Roark could have ducked, nor any side streets. He had simply vanished. 

Dean swore. 

“Crap,” Sam added.  
*****************************************************************************  
The next morning in the local Double T Diner with a strong cup of coffee in front of him, Sam Winchester was scribbling on a notepad while Dean was double checking facts in the case folders. Aggravated, Dean slammed the file shut. Sam looked up and sighed.

“This is pointless,” Dean growled. 

Sam sipped at his coffee thoughtfully. “Yeah.”

“That all you’ve got to say?” he said irritably. 

Sam shrugged. “Well, it’s not like there’s much else we can do. I mean, we lost our prime suspect and nobody knows where he lives, so we can’t follow any leads there. Unless you want to stakeout the bar for the next couple of days, I don’t see what we can do.”

“What I want to do is something other than sit around with our thumbs up our asses!” Dean huffed. “There’s gotta be something, Sammy! Think, Stanford boy, what’s our next move?”

Sam scowled, “Never graduated from Stanford though. What about you, dropout? You can’t figure it out either.” 

Dean held up his hands defensively, “Hey hey, woah! I’m not a dropout! High schools just didn’t have the same idea of education that I do. I am a studier of life, I study everything awesome, and nothing stupid, like math and science and all that shit. I study hunting scum monsters, I study being absolutely awesome and charming, I study being something other than the woolly mammoth women run from, AKA, you. I study pie. Tell me, do they teach you the fine art of pie in those high schools and fancy colleges? I don’t think so!” he ended, his hands slowly lowering.

“Idiot,” Sam muttered. “Look, we’re going through the files and doing research, Dean. Until something else happens we’re just going to have to sit tight.”

“You mean until somebody else gets killed.” 

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. 

“That’s just great! We’re sitting around doing nothin’, and in the meantime the monster of the week is out there doing hell-knows what!”

“Dean, calm down!”

“Don’t start –!”

They were cut off by Dean’s phone which was blaring Aerosmith’s Back In The Saddle loudly enough for the brothers to receive grouchy stares from several of the diner’s other patrons. Dean fished in the bag by his feet and deftly snagged the phone, bringing it up to his ear with a “’lo?”

“Hey, Bobby,” he greeted. “What’s going on?”

Sam shuffled guiltily.

Almost automatically, Dean turned his head to glare at Sam. “Yeah, he’s here,” he replied sourly. Sam sipped at his coffee, and tried to avoid Dean’s gaze. “Dude, you called him?” Dean griped, turning the phone away from his mouth. Sam shrugged and tried to look innocent. 

“No, no, it’s great that you’re helping us. Well, we’re pretty locked up on this case. Have you found anything? Uh-huh. Yeah, I’ll tell him. You too, Bobby. Talk to you later.”

“Tell me what?” Sam asked curiously.

“He wanted me to say that you have a girl’s hairdo.”

Sam scoffed, and watched as Dean rummaged in his bag for the laptop. “No, seriously, what was it Dean?”

Dean typed in the password, and opened a web browser. “I mean it man. We were discussing holding you down and pulling out the ol’ electric razor. You’re never gonna get a girl with that look, fuzzball.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean shot back easily, and signed into his email. “Okay, here it is.” He clicked on the most recent message from Bobby. In the email was a picture of the mysterious Celtic knot, and below it, half a dozen links to webpages. Dean clicked on the first one.

It was similar to the page they had first found when they started the case. However, this site was properly documented and the research seemed less sketchy. “‘Knot-work from pre-Christian Ireland’,” Dean read aloud. 

“Again with the symbolism of darkness,” Sam murmured. 

“Yeah.” Dean scanned the page. “Uh-oh.” 

“What?”

He pointed to the screen. “‘This particular knot, found on the tomb…blah blah blah… is frequently associated with neo-pagan worship’.” He looked at Sam. “You know what that means.”

Sam grimaced. “Witches.”

Dean full-bodied shuddered. “That’s what it sounds like. Ugh. Witches again,” he whined. 

Sam anxiously rechecked the page. “I don’t know, do you think we’re reading too much into this? I mean, we don’t even know that it’s witches.”

“It’s still the best lead we’ve got,” Dean minimized the tab and went to the next link. It was the obituary for Fai Thanatos. Dean opened the next one, and it was Kieran Anthony’s obituary. “Why’d he send us these?”

Sam was suspiciously silent. 

Dean glanced at the email. Written above the links was a concise message from Bobby: 

‘Check your facts, you idiots.’

“Aw man, you told him about the hot morgue chick and the files?” Dean frowned. “Great, now he’s gonna check up on us all the time, make sure we did our homework.”

Sam just shrugged. 

“‘Fai Thanatos, beloved husband of Deirdre Thanatos nee Brady, father of Eleanor and Maria Thanatos, and dear brother of Ming Thanatos, died Thursday, March 10. He was forty-four years old.’ Pretty self-explanatory. ‘On Sunday the 13th, Kieran Anthony, son of Rachel and Michael Anthony, died Sunday evening. He was an only child. Mr. Anthony was a well-respected attorney for Monroe, Lewis& Cohen. He had one ex-wife, Rosalind Jones –’ and so on.”

“There’s really nothing unexpected there.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed. “Well, I guess we’re gonna have to –”

Dean’s phone began to ring again. Bewildered, he picked it up and answered it. “Yeah? Hey. No, what happened?”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled as he watched Dean pack up the files and the laptop hurriedly. “Uh-huh. Lancaster Street. We’ll be there in ten. Bye.”

“What’s up?” Sam asked immediately. 

“Got another one,” Dean grunted, and then he called for the check.  
*****************************************************************************  
They pulled up in front of Darcy’s Pub. There was a line of lit-up cop cars running down the street, and the pavement outside the place was protected by a barrier of yellow police tape. 

“Could be a problem, us going in with so many real cops,” Dean muttered. “Sure you don’t wanna wait till it’s cooled down in there?”

Sam drummed his fingers on the window and shook his head. “I’ll bet they’re so busy they don’t notice a couple more bodies.” He opened the car door. “C’mon.”

They didn’t even have to hold up their badges to get into the scene. The police who were there weren’t about to stop two fully grown men in cheap government suits. The place was practically swarming with detectives; Sam had been right in guessing that no one would notice them. 

In the center of the bar, face-down in a pool of his own blood was a man’s body. He was young, almost cruelly so, and his throat had been slit from the left ear to the right. 

“Detectives,” Dr. Swift murmured from behind them.

Dean and Sam turned around. “You rang?” Dean remarked.

She nodded perfunctorily, and made her way over to the body. “Thomas Taggart, age twenty-two. Found dead in the bar when the owner came in this morning. Victim’s cause of death -”

“Is pretty obvious,” Sam commented.

“Victim’s cause of death,” Annie Swift huffed, “was from having a thin blade slashed through his vocal cords and larynx. Mr. Taggart suffocated and bled to death at approximately 4 a.m. this morning.”

“4 a.m.?” Dean repeated, “What time does this place close?”

“Sign say 2,” Sam informed him. 

“So the dude was in here after hours?” Dean folded his arms. “Why? And how?”

“You can ask the bartender about that yourself.” Dr. Swift said. “That’s not in my job description. But pointing out this is.” With her carefully gloved hands, she pulled back the collar on Thomas Taggart’s UMUC sweatshirt. Burned onto his collar bone, and tinted red from the newness, was the same Celtic knot that had been on Fai Thanatos and Kieran Anthony. 

Dean growled. “How is this guy always one step ahead of us? Damn it, this is three murders this week!”

Sam sighed. “Is there anything else, Doctor Swift?”

She shook her head. “The victim’s sister is sitting at the bar. You might want to question her next.”

“Thanks, Annie.” 

Dean received only a frosty glare in response.

They looked around the pub. There was a skinny blonde girl sitting at the bar, her head buried in her arms. 

“Why don’t you talk to the sister,” Dean suggested in a low voice, rolling up his sleeves. “And I’ll sniff around for hex-bags and stuff.”

“What?” Sam asked incredulously, “You’re going to do the work and have me talk to the girl? You feelin’ ok, Dean?” 

“Shut up idiot!” Dean hissed, looking over at Dr. Swift and making sure she hadn’t heard. 

“Ohhh okay; you don’t want the girlfriends to meet? Got it.” Sam pat Dean on the back while rolling his eyes. Dean grumpily shook his hand off and smacked Sam’s head when no one was looking. 

“Fine…” Sam sighed, straightened his tie, nodded to Dean, and walked over to the counter. “Ms. Taggart?”

The young blonde woman lifted her head. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed. “Yes?” she asked shakily.

Sam sat down next to her at the bar. “Hi,” he started gently. The victim’s sister was clearly shaken up. She didn’t look much older than twenty. 

She hiccupped. “H-hello.” Sam was taken aback by the strong sent of alcohol on her breath. “Are you the one who’s going to question me?”

“Yes,” Sam said without hesitation, feeling only faintly guilty for the real police officers he was bypassing. “Ms. Taggart –”

“Amanda.”

“Amanda. You’re the sister of Thomas Taggart?” She nodded. “Do you know what he was doing here after closing hours?”

Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head furiously. Sam squinted at her. “You sure?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “We really need all of the information that we can get. So if there’s anything that you could tell us…”

Amanda swallowed hard and her eyes darted around the room. “Thomas was a hardworking medical student” she said nervously. “We both were. He wouldn’t have broken in-” 

“– was Thomas a regular here at Darcy’s, Amanda?” Sam interrupted. 

“No! He never, ever drank.” She hiccupped again and reached for the glass sitting in front of her. Sam watched curiously as she gulped down the whole thing in one shot. 

He cleared his throat. “Do you know if your brother was fighting with someone? You know, arguing?”

Amanda quivered from head to toe. “No-!” she whimpered.

Sam folded his arms. “Ms. Taggart,” he said sternly. “If you know anything, you are responsible for telling us!”

She covered her face with her hand. “It- it all happened so fast,” she slurred, fat tears spilling out from under her lashes. “I was so angry about the loan, and she said that he would help me get the money –” She hiccupped twice, and began to cry harder. “I swear I didn’t know that Thomas was following me here, but then he caught us and I had the scalpel in my hand…” she began to sway, slumped over, and passed out cold there at the counter.

Sam didn’t even have time to react. He turned around and shouted, “Hey, we need a doctor over here!” and then he quickly checked the young woman’s pulse. It was still beating, albeit at a rather sluggish pace. 

Dr. Swift arrived, with Dean hot on her heels. “You good?” Dean asked him quickly while the doctor went to work on Amanda Taggart.

“Yeah. I think we gotta give her to the police though. She basically just gave me a full confession.”

“Man, really? She killed her brother?” Sam nodded. “She say anything about the brand marks?” 

“No, nothing.”

Dean shrugged. “Then it makes no difference. We’re still on the case.” 

Sam stood up so that Dr. Swift would have more room to work. “You find any hex-bags?” he asked Dean quietly so that no one else would hear.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Nah. The place is freakin’ clean. Hey, what else did the girl tell you?”

Sam looked over at the unconscious woman. “She said that her brother followed her here and interrupted some deal she was making. Apparently, that” he said, pointing at the body, “was an accident.”

Dean grimaced. “So she didn’t mean to kill her brother. Any chance she told you who it was she met here?” Sam shrugged. “Great. We’re still stuck at square one. Anything  
else we gotta do here before we go?”

Sam was about to answer, when they heard a voice calling them excitedly from across the bar. “Sam! Dean! Oh, boys!”

They turned around and looked at the door which led to the outside of the Pub. Leaning halfway through the doorway was the exuberant Alexandra O’Brian.

A police officer tried to herd her back, but somehow the excitable Mrs. O’Brian managed to finagle her way deeper into the bar. “Hello!” she sang at the boys brightly. 

“Hey,” they replied cautiously. 

“I was coming in for the opening, and I heard that we had a murder today! So, I told my husband to drop me off, because obviously, why would I leave? It’s so exciting! Who was killed?” She leaned past Dean and Sam to see the body. “Eugh. Oh, I don’t know him.”

Dean tried not to laugh. “Guess he’s not one of your usuals, huh?”

“Hmm, no.” She sounded disappointed. “But- oh! There’s Mandy! Hello, darling!” 

The brothers turned around just in time to see a policeman cuff Amanda Taggart’s wrists and hear him read her rights. 

An expression of shock filtered over Alexandra’s face. “Why are they arresting her?”

Dean smiled. “’Cause our charming murderess took one good look at puppy-dog eyes Sam over here and spilled everything. Good job, man,” he added, thumping him on the back. Sam flushed.

For a moment, just a moment, Alexandra looked indescribably angry. Then, she shrugged. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have expected it of her!”

“What do you mean?”

“Mandy, Amanda! She’s a regular here too. She comes in most days and hangs out at the bar. I think I saw her chatting with Camlin Roark, as a matter of fact.”

“That guy is bad news,” Dean muttered. “Well, thanks Alexandra. We’re gonna hit it. Call us if you can think of anything else that would help with this case. C’mon Sammy.”  
***************************************************************************  
“Okay, so what have we got?”

Sam sighed and placed the third file next to the two older folders already on the table in their motel. He folded his arms. “We have three murders, all committed within a week.”

“Uh-huh. What else?” 

“All three victims were men, over the age of twenty one.”

“Okay. That’s easy.”

“They all had some connection to Camlin Roark, except for Thomas Taggart. In that case it was his sister who talked to the guy.”

“And all three had the freaky Celtic knot burned onto their skin just minutes after death,” Dean finished. “Is it just me, or are we missing some common thread here, man? Why were those three guys chosen? There must be hundreds of men over 21 that go into Darcy’s Pub all week long.”

Sam sighed, and sank down into his seat. “I’ve got nothing,” he admitted. 

Dean grunted. “Me neither.” He picked up his phone. “I’m gonna order pizza.”

There was silence save the beeping of Dean’s cell phone. Sam listened with half his mind while the other half was focused on the notes in front of him. 

“Pepperoni, extra cheese…Lucky Duck Motel…”

“Ah-ha!” Sam exclaimed.

Dean nearly dropped the phone at Sam’s shout. “What? What!?”

Sam’s expression was a sight to behold; his eyes were alight and his mouth was opened up in a wide oh of delight. He shook the file at Dean. “It’s obvious! Hell, I can’t believe we didn’t see it already!” 

Dean jammed the phone into his back pocket haphazardly. “I’m gettin’ old here, Sammy, what is it?”

“You’re already old, Dean!” Sam replied excitedly still flipping through the file back and forth, double checking what he had just figured out.

“Bitch.” Dean responded in a huff, “What did you find out?” 

“They’re all firstborns!” Sam grabbed a sheet of paper out of the file and read: “‘…Fai was the older brother to Ming Thanatos…’ ‘…Anthony was an only child.’ ‘…Thomas leaves behind one younger sister, Amanda Taggart.’ All the victims were firstborn sons! That’s our connection. That’s what makes these guys similar.”

“I heard ya the first time, Sammy.” Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and took one of the files. “But why would that be a trait our crazy killer is looking for?”

“Probably because firstborn sons are revered in half of the cultures world-wide,” said Castiel.

Sam and Dean jumped. And then they simultaneously drew their guns and pointed them at Castiel.

“It’s only me,” Castiel said mildly, not even flinching. 

“Damn it, Cas!” Dean barked, lowering his gun. “How many times?”

“Apologies,” the angel replied. 

“Wait, how did you even find us?” Sam said irritably, tucking his gun away. “I thought we were angel-proofed.”

Castiel squinted at them. “You called me.”

The brothers gave each other confused looks. “Nope,” said Sam.

Cas huffed. “Then why did my phone ring?”

Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “Huh. Guess I did call you,” he said sheepishly.

Sam guffawed. “Did you –did you butt dial an Angel of the Lord?” he sniggered. 

“Yeah, yeah, very funny!” Dean griped. 

Sam laughed outright, his giant shoulders shaking. Dean folded his arms in annoyance, and Castiel just watched them, perplexed. Eventually, wiping tears of mirth away from his eyes, Sam walked over to the fridge to get himself a soda. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he chuckled, waving them on. “Proceed.”

Cas drifted over to the table and rifled through the files. “Are you acquainted with the rule of primogeniture?”

“No,” said Sam.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. 

They turned to each other, surprised. Cas looked between them evenly. “Primogeniture;” he lectured. “It’s the idea that the firstborn son inherits.”

“It was a biblical thing, right?” Dean asked. 

“You mean the story of Jacob and Esau,” Cas noted. “Yes, that’s the most famous case. Esau, an eldest son, sold his birthright to his brother Jacob in exchange for a bowl of food. He lost his right of primogeniture in the process, which was quite shortsighted of him.” 

“And you think that this primogeniture is the reason these guys are getting killed?” Sam asked. 

Cas cocked his head. “I heard what you were saying over the phone. I think it’s fairly safe to assume that the rule of primogeniture applies here.” He shut Thomas Taggart’s  
file. “It’s not witches you should be looking for.”

“What?” Dean said, surprised by the change in topic.

Castiel waved his hand. “You shouldn’t be looking for witches. You need to search for a pagan god.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The burn marks on the victims’ skin. I’ve seen them before.”

Dean folded his arms. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where?”

“Pre-Christian Ireland.”

Sam huffed. “Sometimes I forget you’ve been around so long, Cas.”

Castiel smiled faintly. “That is an understatement.”

Dean came over to stand next to him. He jabbed the file. “So you’ve actually seen this exact mark before?”

“Yes, I have.” Castiel looked at him. “It was in the mid fourth century, I believe. There was a spree of murders, parents who were each killing their oldest child. They were sacrificing to the local pagan god, who in return would grant them a ‘year of plenty.’ Obviously, Heaven wasn’t pleased with the turn of events, and so Saint Patrick arrived in Ireland 50 years later to put a stop to it.”

“Do you happen to remember how to stop the god? Say, silver bullet or salt?”

Castiel shook his head. “If Saint Patrick managed to do it, then I’m sure you both can figure it out too.”

Dean sung under his breath, “Anything Pat can do, I can do betteeer…” 

Sam and Cas looked at each other, Sam with amused confusion, Cas with confused indifference. 

“Dean… Did you just sing a song from ‘Annie Get Your Gun’?” Sam asked with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

Dean looked at him out of the side of his eyes with an open mouthed frown. 

“No, course not, Sam. What are you talking about? And what do you know about musicals?” He scurried away into the other room.

Sam rolled his eyes and whispered to Cas, “Yeah, he was singing a song from a musical.” 

Dean shouted from the other room, “Shut up, Sammy!”  
***************************************************************************** 

Castiel had disappeared and Dean and Sam were once again busy with research since they’d had a major break in the case. 

“Cas said that the parents of the dead first-borns received a ‘year of plenty.’” Dean grunted, flipping through the files. “You see anything about that online?”

“Actually, yes” Sam replied, his eyes glued to the screen.

Dean perked up. “What, really?”

“Yeah. Check this out.” He turned the screen around. “‘Deirdre Thanatos,’” he read, “‘widow of the recently deceased Fai Thanatos, was shocked Monday when she received almost half of a million dollars in life insurance. The windfall was completely unexpected, as her husband, Fai, was a known alcoholic, abusive, and unable to hold a job at the time of his death. Mrs. Thanatos’ insurance company were also quite surprised, to say the least. Investigations are underway to make sure that everything is aboveboard, but the company says that they do not expect to uncover anything illegal about their findings.’”

Dean whistled lowly. “Wow.”

“That’s one way to put it. A half of a million dollars. Now there’s a motive for murder.”

“Sure is. Hell, I would kill for $500,000.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked, playing along. “And what exactly would you buy with that money?”

“Hmmm. Well, I’d start off small; maybe take myself to Disney World. Then I’d buy you your own damn car, so that you wouldn’t ever steal my Baby again. And then there would be the pie… mounds and mounds of glorious pie…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re the king of the unexpected.”

Dean smirked around a mouthful of beer. “I like to think of myself as uncomplicated.”

“Whatever dude. We should check in with Deirdre and figure out whether she’s the one who made the deal to kill her husband.”

“I wouldn’t blame her. Sounds like the guy was a Grade-A-asshole. Hey, before we go, anybody else get a landfall?”

“Well, according to this, Rosalind Jones was Kieran Anthony’s only heir. She collected all of his money, about $300,000 dollars in the bank, not including the worth of his house and about $300,000 in stocks and bonds.”

Dean hummed. “Hey, Sammy, if I knocked you off, about how much do you think you’re worth?” He reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair wildly.

Sam scowled and batted away his hands. “Can it, Dean. This is serious. Somebody’s making deals with a pagan god and getting him to make them rich.”

“Sounds like something Gabriel would do.”

“Yeah, well, we know it’s not him.” They were both silent, remembering the fallen archangel. Dean cast a furtive glance at Sam.

“Anyway, do we know which god it actually is?”

“Not yet,” Sam replied. “But I sent Bobby a message, and you know he’ll talk to other Hunters to figure it out. We’ve just got to give it some time.”

“We already tried to ‘give it some time,’ and we got a kid killed!”

“His sister got him killed,” Sam corrected. “It wasn’t our fault.”

“Yeah, well, that don’t make me feel any better.”

Sam groaned. “C’mon. Hang up that Winchester-sized sack of guilt and let’s go question Mrs. Thanatos and family.”  
****************************************************************************  
Deirdre wasn’t at home when the brothers rang the doorbell, but her sister Maureen opened the door. “Yes?” the slim blond haired woman asked suspiciously, only opening the door enough to poke her head out. 

“Hi.” Dean smiled a little too brightly. Maureen’s expression tightened.

“What do you want?” she replied with a hint of warning in her tone.

Sam raised his hands to pacify her. “We’re Agents Perry and Jackson. New information has arisen in your brother-in-law’s case, and we’d like to ask you just a couple of questions.”

“My sister’s not home.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to talk to you,” Dean said cheerfully.

Maureen’s eyes narrowed and the brothers could tell she was about to shut the door. As quickly as he could, Sam jammed his foot in the gap just as she tried to slam the door shut. 

“I, for one, can think of quite a few things to say,” Sam said with a grim smile.  
*****************************************************************************  
Maureen sat coldly on the sofa. An uncomfortable Dean and Sam sat opposite her in a pair of feminine floral armchairs. 

“Let’s start with the most obvious question,” Dean said, ignoring the awkward silence. “Have you ever been to Darcy’s Pub on Lancaster Street?

Maureen hesitated. 

“Well?” Sam prompted, his tone only hinting at aggressive. 

She glared at him. “I don’t have to say. I’m not under any oath.”

“True, but we could always just take you down to the station. I think you’ll be more cooperative once you’ve spent some time in that fine establishment.”

What station? Sam mouthed at Dean. His brother shrugged, and returned his attention to their suspect. 

Maureen’s face was pale. “All three of us went to Darcy’s,” she admitted quietly. “Fai was slobbering drunk and Deirdre needed my help.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She was afraid he was going to hurt her again.”

“Ma’am, we know Fai had a history of violence.” Dean leaned in closer. “But that doesn’t mean that you should have made a deal to have him killed.”

She recoiled violently. “What –!”

Sam grabbed her arm when she tried to bolt. “Sit. Down,” he ordered firmly.

Maureen was trembling, but she did as she was told. “I didn’t do that! I wouldn’t have hired an assassin to take out Fai! Sure he was a bully, but my sister loved him!”

Dean and Sam glanced at each other. “So, you’ve never heard of Camlin Roark?” Sam determined.

Maureen hesitated. “No-ooo…” she said slowly. “But I think I remember Fai introducing a man by that name to Deirdre when we went by the pub to pick him up.”

Dean squinted at her. “Maureen, do you know if Fai ever tried to hurt either one of your nieces when he was drunk?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence spoke all.

“Thank you for your time,” Sam said, standing. Dean followed suit and they walked out of the Thanatos’ home onto the clean streets of Charles Village. 

Sam turned to Dean as soon as they shut the door. “What can I say? One of those women is an incredible actress.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “So, what it comes down to is either the mother killed the father to save her kids, or the sister got Deirdre out of an abusive marriage so she could get her hands on a lot of cash. One of the two of them made a deal with our resident pagan god, who hasn’t popped up since we followed him, which means he’s smarter than we gave him credit for. Have I missed anything?”

“No, I think that pretty much sums it up.” They rambled over to the Impala. 

“If we could just find the god, then we wouldn’t have to worry about any more deals popping up,” Dean shook his head disgustedly, and opened the car door. “And when are we gonna stop calling him the god? He’s gotta have a name.”

Sam shrugged and slid into the car. “Cas gave us all the information he’s got. Either Bobby will find more stuff about him, or we’re just gonna have to go in underprepared.”

“When we actually find him, you mean.” Dean scowled. 

“Well, at least we’ve got Alexandra looking out for him at Darcy’s,” Sam sighed. “Other than that, I don’t know what we can do.”

Dean grunted and turned the ignition. “We can go get something to eat. I’m starvin’.” He put the Impala into drive and gunned down the street. 

They popped into a little fast-food joint tucked away on the streets of Downtown Baltimore. They both ordered burgers and fries and took them back to the Lucky Duck Motel. They had nearly finished their dinner when music began to emanate from Sam’s back pocket.

“…I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world! Life in plastic, it’s fantastic!”

Sam’s astonished face made Dean simply howl with laughter. 

“…come on Barbie, let’s go party!”

Sam snapped open the phone. “Asshole,” he grumbled at Dean, who was pounding on the table, giggling. 

They both heard a loud exclamation come from the phone. Sam grimaced. “Sorry, no, not you, Bobby. Dean changed my ringtone,” he explained into the mouthpiece. 

Dean grinned.

“Hang on a second, I’ll put you on speaker.” Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed a button.

“…you girls too busy braiding each other’s hair, or can we get down to business?” Bobby sounded grouchier than usual. 

The brothers smiled. “Good to hear your voice, Bobby,” Dean greeted.

Their adoptive uncle softened. “Likewise.” He cleared his throat. “Now do you want to hear what I’ve got to say or not?”

“Shoot.”

“Based on what your angel said, you’re looking for an Irish god, called Crom Cruach.”

“Crumb Crotch?” Dean repeated, looked baffled.

Sam was already Googling the name. “Krom- Krew-ohk,” he pronounced carefully. “A pre-Christian deity from Ireland.”

“That’s right.” They heard the sound of pages turning over the phone. “Apparently Crom Cruach was the god of human sacrifice before the Irish became Catholics. The natives would kill their firstborns in order to have a bountiful grain supply the next year. I’m guessing that nowadays the deal for a ‘bounty’ includes money instead of wheat.”

“Like with Deirdre Thanatos,” Sam said. “Or Rosalind Jones. Both of them came into a fortune.”

“And Amanda Taggart.” Dean added. “She was trying to get some kind of loan. But her brother interrupted the deal before it went through.”

“Exactly.” They heard Bobby shut the file. 

“Got any ideas on how to get rid of this Crom Crotch?” Dean asked. “Or on how to find him?”

“I don’t know ‘bout finding him,” Bobby said. “But I’ve got a clue how to take him out.”

The brothers perked up. “We’re all ears,” Sam said, sitting up.

“According to what I’ve dug up, Saint Patrick was the one to put an end to the god’s worship.”

“Yeah, that’s what Cas said too.”

“Well, this is where the story gets sticky. In Ireland there was a silver and gold statue of Crom Cruach surrounded by twelve bronze figurines, supposedly representing the zodiac signs. One source says that Saint Patrick took a sledgehammer and bashed the statue in pieces.”

Dean looked enthusiastic. “Now that sounds completely awesome. C’mon Sammy, it’s time for trip to the nearest Home Depot!”

“Hold onto your britches, you idjit,” Bobby grumbled. “I ain’t done talkin’ yet. Apparently there’s another version of what happened.”

“Uh-oh,” Sam commented.

“In the later medieval version, when Saint Patrick goes near the statues, he raises his crozier, which is a kind of archbishop’s staff. The main statue sinks into the ground, and up pops a ‘demon.’ Long story short, Patrick damns the demon to hell and the stone circle crumbles.”

“Crap; that doesn’t sound good.” Sam looked worried. 

“So, is he a demon or a god? ‘Cause I got to tell you, a hybrid doesn’t seem like something I wanna deal with.” Dean pouted. “The smash-them-up version sounded like a lot more fun.”

“I would say he’s still a pagan god,” Bobby said. “‘Demon’ was a term for anything that was pagan in the medieval ages. I only brought that part up in case you boys need to do an exorcism to get rid of him. Crom Cruach’s old: he may have made demon deals over the years to get his powers.” 

“So you’d stick with the sledgehammer method?” Dean asked eagerly.

Bobby snorted. “Yeah, go work out your anger management issues.”

Dean punched the air.

“And boys?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”  
*****************************************************************************

The next day was St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th. Dean and Sam had spent the rest of the day beforehand on a very successful shopping trip at the local hardware store. They had all of sledgehammers money could possibly buy, not to mention several 40 pound bags of salt. The cashier had been baffled, but had checked them out anyway. 

Now all they needed to do was find Crom Cruach. The brothers had split up all day in search of clues but they’d had little luck. They met back up during dinner time at the Lucky Duck. “Anything?” Sam asked, looking up from his laptop.

“Nothin’,” Dean replied, and flopped down face first on the bed. He mumbled something into his pillow.

“What?”

Dean untucked his head. “I said: what do we do next? I mean, I’m guessing Saint Patrick’s Day is the best time to take down this guy, since Saint Patrick is the one who gave him the ol’ K-O in the first place. But we got no idea where he is. I repeat, what do we do?”

Sam sighed. “I don’t know. More research, I guess?”

Dean sneered. “We can’t research any more than we already have.” He scratched his chin. “I’m gonna get a drink. You comin’?” 

Sam scowled. “Dean, if you want to waste time at a bar, be my guest. Meanwhile, I am going to keep trying to make a break in this case.”

“Fine,” Dean retorted shortly. He grabbed his keys and stormed out.

In the Impala, Dean sat and fastened his seat belt. He was still scowling from the argument with Sam. He hadn’t made the offer to go drinking lightly, he was tired and frustrated with the case, and had wanted them both to take the night off and relax. Still, he knew that Sam wasn’t wrong. They really very badly needed some clues in this case. 

For a moment, he considered calling Cas to see if he wanted to hang out. But then he dismissed the idea. For some reason the words ‘angel,’ ‘bar,’ and ‘hanging out’ didn’t quite seem to go together in his mind.

Just then, his cellphone began to ring. Dean fished through his jacket pocket until he found the phone. “’lo?” he greeted.

“Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

“That depends. Who’s this?” Dean replied cautiously.

“Oh! I didn’t realize – this is Alexandra O’Brian. Is this Dean, or Sam?”

“Hey, Alexandra. This is Dean. What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m so glad to talk to you!” she gushed. “I thought I had lost your number, but then I realized that I had left it in my other jeans and then I found it in my new purse…well, anyway, I found your number!”

Dean grimaced. “Great. Alexandra, why are you calling?”

“Right. So sorry. I should just get to the point, I guess.”

“That would be nice.”

“It’s Camlin Roark… I saw him here, talking to a girl!”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What? He’s there now?”

“Yes, yes! And I said to myself, Alexandra, you need to tell those nice young detectives all about it, because of those terrible murders. Is he a suspect?”

Dean was reaching in the glove compartment for his spare cellphone. “Alexandra? Do me a favor and don’t go near him, alright? Stay away, but keep an eye on him. Can you do that for me?”  
“Yessir!” Dean could only assume that she was saluting him on the other end of the line. 

He rolled his eyes. “See you when I get there.”

He hung up. Throwing his work phone on the passenger seat, Dean grabbed a throw-away phone to call Sam. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam replied carefully. Dean could only assume he was still pissed at him.

“I just got a phone call from Alexandra. She says Camlin Roark is at Darcy’s right now. I’m gonna be there in about five minutes. Call yourself a cab and meet me there.”

“What? Dean, no. You can’t go get him by yourself.”

“Calm down, Samantha,” Dean replied dryly. “I’m gonna wait until you get here. I’ll sit with Alexandra and keep an eye on him until then. See you in a few.”

“Bye.” 

Dean parked across the street from Darcy’s. He tugged at his coat, and slipping his phone into his pocket, crossed the road. He opened the door and stepped down into the dark smoky pub.

Alexandra waved at him eagerly from the counter. His eyes roving around the room, Dean joined her. Alexandra was sitting alone, but she had three beers sitting in front of her, one half drunken. “Here,” she said, abruptly thrusting the drink at him. 

Dean drank from it without thinking. He lowered the glass, grimacing at the bitterness. “Where’s our suspect?”

“Oh, Camlin? He just walked out.”

“What?” Dean growled. “You let him get away?”

Alexandra looked surprised at his sudden anger. “You told me not to follow him,” she said reproachfully.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. “All-right” he ground out slowly. “Did you see which way he went?”

“Yes actually. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Dean chugged back more of the beer. “Let’s go.”

They walked outside. Dean stumbled against the doorframe and Alexandra helped steady him. “I’m fine, fine,” he said, waving her off. “Which…way’d he go?”

Alexandra pointed to the right. Dean began to walk down the street, but strangely, the ground began to tilt. He paused and watched as the road swayed like a pirate ship at an amusement park. And then he realized that it wasn’t the street that was swaying, but him.

“Oh shit,” Dean hissed as the ground came up to meet him.

The last thing he saw before he hit the concrete was Alexandra’s red stilettos pacing in front of him. *****************************************************************************  
Sam stepped out of Darcy’s Pub, cell phone glued to the side of his head, a glass of beer in the other hand. The buzzing of the phone was insistent in his ear; he had been calling Dean straight for the last ten minutes. “C’mon man, pick up,” he muttered, looking around the street for the Impala. He spotted her a little ways down the road, and he crossed the street to stand in front of the car. Sam peered in the windows, his hot breath fogging the cold glass. There was no sign of Dean.

Frustrated, he disconnected his phone. Sam had spoken to the bartender, and not wanting to get in trouble with the law, she had admitted that she had seen Dean come in that evening, but otherwise she had been unable to tell him anything. 

Tucking his phone away, and leaning back against the Impala, Sam closed his eyes. “Castiel?” He folded his hands in prayer position. “Hey, Cas? We’ve got a problem with this case. I was supposed to meet Dean at this bar, but he’s disappeared and I think he may be in trouble –”

“Hello Sam,” Cas rumbled.

Sam opened his eyes. “Hey.” He walked around the other side of the Impala to stand across from Cas. 

“What happened to Dean?” Castiel was, as ever, intense in his questioning. 

“I’m not sure,” Sam admitted. “But I think one of our key witnesses kidnapped him. Here,” and he handed him the beer.

Cas stared down at the glass, nonplussed. “Uh – Sam?”

Sam snorted. “You don’t have to drink it all. Just tell me if it’s drugged.”

Cas took a careful sip. He drew back, and grimaced. “Narcotics.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sam swore.

Cas frowned disapprovingly. “There’s no need for blasphemy, Sam.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”  
***************************************************************************** 

Dean awoke slowly. His head ached from where it had hit the pavement, and his palms were sore from being scraped against concrete. He grunted, tried to sit up, and found he could not. He was sitting against a concrete pole, his hands bound behind his back with duct tape. Dean lifted his head and looked around at his surroundings. 

He was in a dingy basement, with a dirt floor and a drop ceiling. There were heavy kegs and boxes surrounding him, filled with many kinds of liquor. Dean writhed slowly, trying to wriggle out of the duct tape bonds. 

The click of a pistol’s hammer made him stop dead in his tracks.

“Oh, dear, I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

Dean whipped his head around to look at the steps behind him. Alexandra O’Brian was sashaying down the stairs, Dean’s own gun pointed straight at him. 

Dean stiffened, and sat up straighter. “Whoa, there,” he murmured. “Gettin’ kind of fresh, are we?”

Alexandra did not smile. “I’m sorry about this, Dean. But you and your brother were getting too close to the truth. I had to do something.”

“What truth? What’re you gonna do?”

She waggled the gun. “You and Sam were asking too many questions, were getting too close to finding out the truth behind what connected Fai Thanatos, Keiran Anthony, and Thomas Taggart.”

“Too late,” Dean replied. “We know about all the primogeniture.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “The what now?”

Dean eyed her with a lofty expression. “The firstborn sons.” 

“Oh.” 

For a moment, the gun drooped in Alexandra’s hands, and Dean fiercely wished that his arms were free so he could fight her for it. But then she tightened her fingers and slowly and sweetly smiled at him. “You boys were so clever, figuring out that it was Mandy, Deirdre, and Mac who made those deals.”

Dean smiled sarcastically. “Why, thank you, Ma’am.”

“But, in my own defense, Amanda Taggart is the one who gave it all away. If she hadn’t cracked, I would still be in the clear.”

“What is it you do exactly, Alexandra?” Dean asked her disgustedly. “Huh? What are you, some kind of pimp? You find customers who are so desperate for money or a better future that they’ll kill off their own kin in worship of a god who don’t deserve any kind of respect?” 

An ugly expression crossed Alexandra’s face. “I don’t judge them for needing the money or for getting away from an abusive husband, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well I think that’s bullcrap and you know it!” Dean retorted. “Yeah, they may have had their reasons, but that don’t give you a free pass to go killing people! You get a divorce or apply for bankruptcy; you play the hand you’re dealt. Bad things happen to good people, and that may suck, but it’s the way life is. And you can’t just go and make a deal to make it all better.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” she sneered.

“Takes one to know one,” Dean shot back.

They eyed one another in silence, glaring back and forth. Then Alexandra sighed, and a false cheery smile broke across her face. “Well, not that this hasn’t been fun, but it’s time to get on to my summoning.”

“Summoning?” Dean repeated. “I thought Crumb Crotch was a god.”

Alexandra shrugged. “He may be a god now, but he wasn’t always.”

“Let me guess,” Dean said dryly. “Guy has to be summoned, makes deals for the lives of wealth seeking idiots…he’s a demon being worshiped as a god.”

“Got it in one,” she approved. “Now shut up; I need to focus.”

She walked to the center of the room and began to chant in an unfamiliar language. It took Dean a minute to recognize it as Irish Gaelic. He tensed. “You know, you don’t have to do this.” Dean began to scramble to break free himself from his bonds.

“Fola, adhair mé tú…oh no, I really think I do. You see, Dean, this’s where you come in, honey!”

He froze. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! I ain’t doing nothing, darlin’.”

“That’s the best part,” Alexandra smiled. “You don’t have to do a thing. It’s all up to me. You see, Dean, my family has been worshiping Crom Cruach for 1500 years, since the O’Brian clan ruled in Ireland. Every year we offer him a sacrifice on St. Patrick’s Day, and you were lucky enough to be chosen as this year’s sacrifice!”

“Yay.”

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. It’s an honor, really.” She pulled a bottle of the finest whiskey out from one of the boxes, and began pouring it liberally on the dirt floor. “Uisca beatha…”

“Where are we anyway?” Dean interrupted. “Your place?”

She laughed. “You wish. No, we’re in Darcy’s Pub. Or underneath it, anyway. It’s an abandoned basement. The perfect place to summon an Irish god without anyone becoming the wiser.”

“Yeah,” Dean said morosely as Alexandra moved to light a candle. “That’s just awesome.”  
*****************************************************************************  
“So what are we going to do now?” Sam asked Castiel, trying to ignore the rising panic inside of him. Sam knew that with hostage situations, every second counted. 

Cas sighed, screwing up his face in deep concentration. “I’m thinking,” he said, voice laced with concentration and annoyance. “The Enochian symbols I engraved on both of your ribs are making it…difficult for me to trace Dean.”

“‘Difficult’ meaning?”

“Impossible.” Cas opened his eyes and frowned. 

“There’s got to be some way you can find him.”

Cas hesitated and then quirked his head slightly. 

Sam groaned. He knew that face. That’s was the one that said; ‘this is going to hurt.’  
******************************************************************************  
Alexandra had traced out a twelve sided star on the floor surrounding the area where she had poured the whiskey. She was muttering in Gaelic, her entire attention focused on the task at hand. 

Dean, alternatively, was entirely focused on loosening his bonds. It hadn’t escaped his attention that there was soon going to be demon-god who killed firstborn sons in the same room with him. Dean also had not failed to notice the fact that he was a firstborn son. The thought was not one that comforted him. 

He had managed to loosen the duct tape about half an inch. It wasn’t that much space and his wrist had been rubbed raw, but it was a start, and that was all Dean needed. A plan was forming in his mind and he only needed another inch or so before he would be freed. 

“Dia cam beag glacadh leis an íobairt!” Alexandra shouted and all the lights blew out.

The room grew cold and the stench of sulfur filled the air. Dean began to struggle in earnest, pulling and stretching the sharp bonds. 

“My lord,” he heard Alexandra whisper somewhere in front of him. There was the soft scraping sound of fabric on concrete as she fell to her knees before the shadowy figure standing before her. “My lord, welcome back.”

There was a heavy scraping sound, the rough thump of a body pulling itself upright. “Who are you?” growled a man with a deep rumbling voice. 

In the darkness, Dean could just make out Alexandra rising to her feet, nearly six feet in height with her stilettoes. “I am of the clan O’Brien,” she told Crom Cruach, her voice shaking with nerves, “and I am here to serve you, lord.”

Crom Cruach stood. “Light a candle,” he ordered, his tone dark. 

“Yes, my lord!” Alexandra stooped down and relit the same candle which had been blown out earlier. In the dim light, Dean could finally see the god for whom they had been searching. 

It was Camlin Roark. He was a little man, only four feet in height when standing. His back was greatly curved; he was a hunchback, but he wore a large black coat to cover himself, and a broad brimmed hat to shade his face. He had a long crooked nose and a twisted mouth. Everything about him was uneven. He stepped towards Alexandra, who towered over him. “And where is this year’s sacrifice?” he whistled through his crooked teeth. “Where is your babe?”

Alexandra trembled. “I have not brought you my son, my lord. Instead, I thought I would give you this man.” And she gestured to Dean, who had stopped struggling. 

Crom Cruach turned his head to stare at Dean. He eyed him for a moment, and then turned back to Alexandra fiercely. “You thought you would give me this imperfect sacrifice?” he growled, “instead of your newborn child?”

Alexandra began to cry. “Please, lord, this man was onto us; he knew of the other sacrifices this year! If you take him, I will be able to supply you with other victims for years to come.”

The Demon god studied her through whiskey-colored eyes. “I understand,” he told her magnanimously. She almost sobbed in relief. Crom Cruach reached forward then, his hand shot out through his dark cloak and he wrapped his strong wrist around Alexandra’s thin throat. She gasped, and fought against him, thrashing futilely. Crom Cruach squeezed tighter, she sagged in his grasp and he dropped her heavily on the ground. 

“I understand that you have not given your all,” he continued coldly, and then he stepped over her prone body to face Dean.

“Winchester,” he greeted with a malicious smile. Dean writhed his hands behind him desperately. Only another half-inch to go.

“Crumb Crotch,” he shot back. “How’re you doing, man?”

“All the better for seeing you as my sacrifice,” Crom Cruach said, his Irish lilt at odds with his gravelly voice. “Imagine my surprise seeing one of you Winchesters as my prisoner.” He smiled. “I can think of dozens of demons who will be so happy to see you back in Hell.”

Dean grimaced. “And here I was, thinking you just loved me for my personality.”

Crom Cruach laughed. “Such a smart mouth on you. We’ll see how you’re feeling after you’ve been on the Rack for a few dozen years.”

“Been there, done that,” Dean said breezily. He almost had the rope loose. “Come back when you’ve actually got something that scares me.”

Crom Cruach reached inside of his belt and pulled out a wickedly sharp sickle knife. “That’s just what I intend to do.”

It was now or never. Dean wrenched his hands free, leapt to his feet, and sprung at the pagan demon god.  
****************************************************************************  
Castiel placed his hand over Sam’s breastbone. Sam squeezed his eyes shut nervously, preparing himself for the pain. 

Cas’ hand glowed, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath, cringing as a zing of pain exploded throughout his chest. Shoving Cas away, Sam placed a hand over his heart in shock. “Ow!” he hissed.

Apologizing probably never even occur to Castiel, who stared up at Sam expectantly, his eyes narrowed. “Well? How do you feel?”

Sam scoffed. “Like you just stuck a hot poker into my chest; how do you think I feel?”

Castiel watched him closely. “I altered the sigils I carved into your ribcage into a locator spell. It works through bloodlines. If Dean’s alive, we should know it soon.”

“How?” Sam began, but then a sharp tug in his chest made him hiss. “The hell is that?”

Cas’ eyes brightened. “That would be the spell. It’s pulling you towards Dean because you’re brothers.”

Sam followed the tugging in his chest across the street. It was a strange feeling, like someone had tied a string in between his ribs. Cas followed him, close at his heels. 

The tugging pulled him back outside of Darcy’s Pub. Sam frowned. He knew Dean wasn’t in the Pub, but he moved towards the door anyway. Then the tugging stopped, and began to urgently pull in another direction. Sam froze with his hand halfway to the doorknob and turned and began walking towards the alleyway behind the Pub. 

“Sam?” Cas inquired. Sam ignored him and kept moving, his heart beating faster as he followed the sensation down the lane. And then he stopped dead. 

They were in Darcy’s back alley. There was nothing there except for some empty bins, litter on the ground, and the exterior cellar door. 

“I don’t understand,” Sam said, his brow furrowing, “he should be right here.”

But Cas was already on the move. He strode with purpose towards the cellar door and peered inside. “I hear voices,” he claimed.

Sam was immediately by his side, and testing the knob. “It’s locked!”

Castiel gave him a look. In one sudden movement, he wrenched open the door with inhuman strength, and the knob and lock went flying into the dark alley. The two of them raced down the wooden stairs.

“Stop!” Sam barked as the crooked figure.

Crom Cruach looked up from under the brim of his dark hat. In one hand he held a sickle knife, wet with crimson blood. On the floor lay two bodies; Alexandra O’Brien, and Dean, who was lying face-down in a pool of blood.

Sam felt a chill start in his stomach and shoot up his spine. With boiling anger, he swiftly whipped out his gun and shot the pagan god.

The bullet struck true. Crom Cruach looked down at his chest, to the spot where the silver bullet had sunk into his body. Then he looked back up at Sam with his crooked eyes, and with his crooked mouth he grinned. 

“Oh sh-” was all Sam managed before the god threw his head back and expelled the demon from his body. The room swirled with black smoke and it swept towards Sam and Cas. 

“Stop him!” Sam barked at Cas, already ducking under the demon’s form and charging towards Dean. 

Behind him, Cas flicked his arm and his angel blade appeared with a snickt! He slashed at the black smoke and the demon jerked away. 

“You can’t leave here,” Cas informed him. He advanced smoothly down the stairs, blade held high. “The door is warded. There’s no escape for you.”

The demonic cloud hovered uncertainly, and then as Cas confidently stepped closer, it dove away and re-entered his victim. 

Sam rolled his brother onto his back. Dean was unconscious, and there was a jagged looking hole soaked with blood in the middle of his chest. “Dean,” Sam urged. “Dean, wake up!”

“He’s dead,” sneered Crom Cruach, who was sitting up in his re-inhabited body.

Sam snarled wordlessly. Castiel flung himself forward, swinging his blade in a wide arch towards the demon’s head. Crom Cruach rolled and withdrew his sickle-knife, and then demon and angel went to battle.

They fought fiercely, trading jabs and deadly swipes of their blades. In the meantime, Sam did everything he could to tend to Dean. “Come on man...you have to wake up!”

Cas parried the swing of the Irish god’s knife, sidestepped, and then brought his sword down heavily on the god’s cranium.

Nothing happened. The sword bounced off of Crom Cruach’s hat. Cas lost his footing for just an instant, but quickly regained his balance, disappearing and reappearing behind Crom Cruach. He stabbed the god in the back again and again, but still Crom Cruach reacted with nothing more than a grunt of displeasure. Cas wrenched the blade from the god’s back, splintering and cracking bones in his wake. Crom Cruach hissed. Castiel was stunned; both demons and pagan gods were usually felled beneath angel blades; Crom Cruach was both and yet the sword had no effect on him. 

“Check the trunk, Cas, the trunk!” Sam yelled, his hands pressed into Dean’s wound. 

Silently invading Sam’s thoughts, Cas nodded his head in confirmation, and with a whip of his invisible wings, disappeared. 

Crom Cruach, momentarily put off by the disappearance of his opponent, turned around, and faced Sam and Dean with a violent growl. Sam leapt to his feet, fumbling with his gun. Crom Cruach let out a bellow and charged.

Sam raised his gun, got off three shots, and then dove out of the way as the demon god sliced his blade towards his midriff. Sam tumbled, rolled, and flung his body over Dean’s as Crom Cruach lunged – 

And then the demon’s skull exploded like a water balloon as Castiel smashed his head in with a heavy duty sledgehammer. 

Sam let a huge gasp and ducked, but he was still covered in brain matter as the demon’s body fell. 

Cas lowered the sledgehammer slowly, but his movements were quick as he crossed the room and dropped to his knees before Dean, never mind the gore soaking into his pant legs.

“Is he…?” Sam breathed, hovering behind Cas uncertainly. 

“Not quite,” was the terse reply.

Castiel carelessly shoved Dean’s shirt aside, to reveal the gaping wound just below his heart. Castiel pressed his hand to the bloody gash and closed his eyes, brow creasing in concentration.

“Well?” Sam demanded. “Come on!”

Cas didn’t even bother to expend the energy to glare at him. He stood, frozen, his hands on Dean’s chest.

And then he sat back. His eyes were squinting with confusion. 

“No…” Sam said immediately. “Dean…”

Castiel bowed his head.

And then Dean sat up with a gigantic gulp of air, his hands flying to his chest. “Oooooooow! What the hell?!” He looked around the room. “Sammy? Cas?”

Sam groaned in relief, and the pained expression slid of Castiel’s face. 

“What?” Dean asked self-consciously. “Something on my face?” Then he looked down at his chest to where his hand was covering Cas’ underneath his shirt. “Uhhh…Cas?”

“You very nearly died.” Cas informed him woodenly.

“Right. Sorry.”

There was a pause.

“Couldja move your hands?” Dean asked uncomfortably.

Cold hands were abruptly removed from his skin. 

“Thanks.”  
********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
“Dude, you’ve got brain in your hair.”

Sam made what would forever be referred to by Dean as a girlish shriek, and the piece of brains sticking to his locks fell to the concrete with a splat. “Oh! Gross!”

Dean snickered. 

“Grow up, Dean.”

“You love it,” Dean smirked and then looked up when Castiel exited Darcy’s basement, a troubled expression creased into his face. “Hey.”

“Hello Dean.”

“Thanks for the – uh –” and Dean wiggled his fingers and made a whistling noise.

Cas’ mouth twitched. “You’re welcome.” He glanced around the alleyway, at the dozens of police officers and medical examiners gathered behind the yellow tape. “Doctor Swift asked me to tell you both that Alexandra O’Brian will live, despite her injuries. And that, with her testimony, Deirdre Thanatos, Mac Jones, and Amanda Taggart will be put in police custody within the hour.”

“Good,” Dean said, with obvious relish.

Sam, however, frowned. “Those poor Thanatos girls…I guess their aunt will raise them. And Alexandra’s son…he’ll never know his mother…”

“Guess their mothers’ should have thought better about making a demon deal,” Dean said breezily. “And even you can’t make excuses for Mac. He had his wife’s ex killed out of pure jealousy.”

“I wasn’t humanizing their crimes, Dean,” Sam countered. “I was just, I don’t know, wishing that things hadn’t gone so badly for their kids.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “I get it. I do.” He glanced over at Cas, who was standing with his back to them, rubbing his neck and staring into the door of Darcy’s basement. “Hey! What’s wrong, man?”

Cas looked up with bafflement in his eyes. “Nothing. Dr. Swift was very friendly. She asked me about my job.”

“So?” Dean asked. Behind him, Sam began to smirk.

“I told her that I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean’s mouth fell open and Sam began to giggle. “And she asked me,” Cas continued obliviously, “if I meant that literally or figuratively.” Sam guffawed and Dean groaned, and slapped his own forehead. “Then she wrote down her phone number and slipped it into my back pocket. I don’t think she knew that I noticed.” Castiel paused. “Dean, was that a flirtation?”

Sam, at this point, was bent over with laughter. His brother looked less amused. If anything, Sam would say he looked aggrieved. 

Dean stepped forward and slapped Cas on the back. “Dude,” he said seriously, “don’t ever change.” 

Cas smiled faintly. 

Sam and Dean walked over to the Impala, with Castiel trailing after them. “Shotgun,” Sam announced, grinning at Cas. The angel raised an eyebrow, but slipped into the backseat without complaint. 

Dean looked at Sam over the hood of the Impala. “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Sam looked around at the streets of Baltimore with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Dean gunned the engine as Sam’s phone began to ring. “Hey, Bobby. Yeah, we got him. You’ve got another case?” Sam looked at Dean, and then at Cas, and then grinned. “We’re on our way.” 

Classic AC/DC blared from the Impala’s cassette player as Team Free Will rode off down the dusty roads of Baltimore and into the early morning sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed the story, and we'd love to read your reviews. Thanks!


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